


Forward

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Arguing, Gap Filler, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 07:59:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5282978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the year 504 of the First Age, the Fëanorians discuss what to do about the Silmaril.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forward

**Author's Note:**

> Laiquendi = Green Elves
> 
> Turco = Celegorm (nickname from his Quenya father-name, Turcafinwë)  
> Moryo = Caranthir (nickname from his Quenya father-name, Morifinwë)  
> Curvo = Curufin (nickname from his Quenya father-name, Curufinwë)  
> (I believe the Fëanorians still used their old nicknames in private.)

Autumn had turned Ossiriand into a casket of firey gems that blazed red and gold under the glare of the sun. The trees stood silent and slumbery, entrusting themselves to their peaceful death, but their calm was not shared by the men gathered just out of northernmost border of the forest, where the river Ascar made a large curve in the valley. 

“No Turco, I will not risk any men to attack an island, nor will I risk getting into a fight with the Laiquendi that harbour them...they still know this terrain better than we do, it is their home, and their kin have generously allowed us to share it with them,” Maedhros sternly said, glaring at Celegorm, whose fury showed no sign of abating. It reminded Maedhros keenly, sorrowfully, of their father's desperate wrath after he had seen the ruins of Formenos.

“ _Those_ Laiquendi aided him in his attack on the Dwarves to steal what's _ours_!” Celegorm snarled.

“We don't know _why_ they did.” The vast majority of the Green Elves still nurtured bitter antipathy against humans, a sentiment that Maedhros and his brothers found hard not to share after the betrayal that had dashed their last hope of defeating Morgoth. It was unheard-of that some of them would harbour a man and aid him. He suspected it had more to do with who his wife was. “We cannot afford to alienate our own Green Elven allies. They wouldn't react well to an attack on their own kin on their own soil,” Maedhros added, himself very close to losing his temper by that point. “That should be clear to you, too.”

The twins nodded gravely. They sat perched on a large boulder, and the severity displayed on their upturned faces convinced Celegorm to bit back his umpteenth objection. He threw a glance at Curufin, who stood under a tree, hoping for some support, but Curufin was apparently entirely taken with the golden leaves on the branches overhead. Celegorm clenched his jaw, turned from his brothers, and petted the head of the fox that had strewn herself across his broad shoulders. 

Maedhros observed the animal, a kit his brother had raised together with her siblings after orcs had killed their mother. The others had left once grown, but this one had chosen to stay, and now dozed off peacefully, unaware of the anger that brewed baleful like a ravaging summer storm. Looking at her helped him regain some calm before speaking again. 

“An attack is not necessary, at any rate. The Silmaril was not made for them. They should have become aware of that by now.”

“You really believe it will be returned to us?” Caranthir rasped, his voice croaky from shouting orders in battle. He leant heavily against one of the trees, next to Curufin. His face was pale, save for the red of an open cut on his left cheek from their latest fight with orcs. No matter how many they killed, more always poured down from the North to try to break into Ossiriand. 

“It won't,” Maglor said, sharp as the edge of the blade he polished with the hem of his cape, standing only a few steps from Maedhros. Once he had handled harps and flutes and lutes in the same manner, lavishing attentions other people would have reserved for loved ones on them. 

Maedhros took a deep breath and wetted his lips, trying to pretend that Maglor's categorical denial didn't further trouble him (Maglor was rarely wrong). “...it is but a faint hope, but one I don't wish to let go of. We won't have long to wait to find out at any rate.”

Celegorm shot him a questioning glare.

“They are wasting away, quickly, too quickly for it to be simply the natural advancement of human decay,” Maedhros said, letting a note of satisfaction slip into his voice. The Silmaril had not been made for them, and they wouldn't have had an opportunity to go after it in the first place if he hadn't defended the northern borders for half a millennium. If the majority of his and his brothers' peoples hadn't been slaughtered in place of the Iathrim. But Thingol's daughter had ainu blood, and the Ainur always felt entitled to lay claim on what didn't belong to them, like the Valar, who had tried to coerce their father into giving up the Silmaril even as the people of Formenos reeled, battered and lost, in the wake of Morgoth's attack.

Curufin slowly lowered his head, finally roused from the blank torpor that seemed to envelop him. “How do you know?” 

Maedhros raised his chin towards the twins. It was Amras who stood up and spoke.

“We climbed one of the tallest trees on the northern bank of the Adurant...it affords a nearly complete view of their island.”

“And?” Caranthir urged. 

Amras narrowed his eyes for a moment, as if to recall the scene. “Their skin is withered, like...autumn leaves crushed underfoot,” he said, looking down at the forest floor, “...and less savoury in colour. They are barely able to hold themselves upright, writhing and twitching as if tormented by a great hurt.”

“The half-maia too?” Maglor enquired, lifting his gaze from his sword for a moment.

“Yes...it appears she shares the mortal's fate now,” Amras confirmed. “They will be dead soon.”

“That's one more good reason to attack them –”

“I said we _won't_ Turco, and I _won't_ tolerate any more insistence on your part!” Maedhros yelled, exasperated by Celegorm's obduracy, holding his brother's furious gaze with matching fierceness. “They have had the Silmaril for a little over a year, I don't expect them to last much longer if they don't part from it, particularly if the winter will be harsher than the one past, as seems probable. We might find a way to reclaim it then.”

The silence which settled on the clearing once Maedhros's voice died down was thick and unpleasant, broken only by the sound of footfalls on the dead leaves as Celegorm began to pace back and forth, and by Maglor's soft humming while he finished polishing his sword.

After a time, Caranthir sighed heavily. “If only we had known –”

“We were busy surviving,” Maglor remarked caustically, examining the blade one last time. Satisfied with its lustre, with the certainty that no orc blood remained on it, he sheathed it again.

They had – quite ironically – been pursuing the dregs of an orc raid retreating just north of the river Ascar, while Beren ambushed the Dwarves at the river crossing.

Amras shrugged. “Doriath has self-destructed, in any case, without any intervention on our part or on the part of orcs, and whatever the child-king manages to rebuild won't be hard to tear down, if need be.”

Amrod stood up too, nodding his head. He had as clear a picture of the situation in Doriath as he could piece together thanks to the reports of spies and the unsolicited information provided by unsuspecting travellers to perfectly trusty-looking Elves. “Scattered groups of people leave frequently. Menegroth can't hold the entirety of the forest's population, orcs have ravaged the northern part of the forest during the summer, and the fact that the half-maia sent a mortal child to rule them has dealt the last blow to not a few Iathrim's devotion to Thingol's line. Discontent segments remain, too. Laiquendi, for the most part, who hold grudges against Thingol _and __humans.”_

Something akin to vivacity registered on Curufin's face, and he met his youngest brothers' gazes. “Those are the ones we must reach out to.” 

“My people are doing exactly that,” Amrod said. 

Caranthir shook his head, brow furrowed. “Yet, if we were forced to attack Menegroth it would be to our disadvantage. It would be like fighting in a maze. It would be worse than fighting in a forest.”

Celegorm merely grunted in agreement, knowing well when not to push his luck with their oldest brother. 

“What do we have to lose?” Amras said, opening his arms in a challenging gesture. “If we die, we will join Father. If we get the Silmaril, we will be closer to fulfilling our Oath.”

“What if we don't do either?” Maglor asked.

“Still better than not trying. Do you have an alternative course of action to propose?”

“If we reclaim the Silmaril we might have a chance to rebuild something, too,” Amrod said in support of his twin. 

Maglor didn't contradict them, but it was clear from his expression that he didn't share his youngest brothers' optimism, however tentative. Maedhros instead nodded to them. He was perfectly conscious they had very few options left, just as he was conscious of the risks attached to any attack on Doriath, and that was one of the many reasons why he hoped the question would be settled with Beren and Lúthien's death. “Let us not dwell on the matter any longer for now. We have far more urgent business at hand.” 

“Which is?” Curufin said. 

“Live through this winter first,” Maedhros replied, appealing to the practicality he had never lost in an attempt to dispel his and his brothers' nervousness. “You, Moryo, go south-west, and trade whatever you can trade for more furs. Turco, cross over to the Taur-im-Duinath, see what provisions you can amass there.” Ossiriand was still reasonably prosperous, but it couldn't sustain the needs of more than one population as the winters became colder the more Morgoth's hold over Beleriand extended. “There haven't been any reports of orcs in those regions yet, but be careful. And be back in a month, at the usual place next to the confluence of the Legolin and the Gelion.” 

Celegorm gave a barely perceptible nod. Maedhros took a couple of steps towards him, and reached out with his left arm. Celegorm still looked sullen, but let his brother draw him close and they hugged. The fox woke up while they did, and lapped Maedhros's face in greeting. Her fur was a very similar shade to Maedhros's hair. Smiling, he turned to Curufin. 

“Curvo, you go East, to the mountains. See if you can find any Dwarf willing to share information on the structure of Menegroth...just in case.”

Curufin nodded, and crossed the clearing to hug his oldest brother too.

“What will the four of you be doing?” Caranthir asked.

“We'll try to retake Amon Ereb,” Maglor replied, resting his hand on his sword again. 

“We'll also encourage any Þindar that want to leave to do so by ensuring them safe passage East or South. And,” Maedhros turned to the twins and nodded to them, “we'll see if we can find and draw to our side – neither should be too hard – one Ithilbor, bereaved father of Saeros.”

**Author's Note:**

> Beren and Lúthien kept the Silmaril for a very short time - Thingol was killed in the year 503 and in 506 the Second Kinslaying happened. I take the line according to which the Silmaril sped up their death to be a kind way to say that they suffered a lot by holding onto it.
> 
> The Green Elves appear to have been a very fragmented group. Particularly, Tolkien noted of those who moved to live inside the Girdle: "In the event they did not mingle happily with the Teleri of Doriath, and so lived mostly in the small land Eglamar, Arthórien under their own chief.", so I think it's safe to suppose that tensions abounded.


End file.
